Untitled Short
by LimpBiskit
Summary: Just a thing I did tonight. Took about 15 minutes.


Why was he here?

Staring at the assembled faces, he wondered if his own eyes were the particular shade of red that spoke of hours, no, days of grief.

Did his breathing sound so raw and phlegmatic, and did his hands tremble as they lay clasped atop his thighs?

He skimmed the smallish crowd with no notice of the details that should have fairly leapt out at him after so long, but he rather suspected that he was not the only one.

Donovan was unexpectedly smart in her off-black suit, for once well removed from the usual disdain she held for the man they had gathered to pay respects to this day. Beside her, Lestrade seemed to be weighted by more than simple mourning, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers. Upon closer inspection, the clear outline of his clenched knuckles were visible.

It was strangely comforting to know that he wasn't the only one who felt the urge to strike out at the world.

Anderson was conspicuously absent, but he thought that it could be called an expected omission.

After all, his failure to secure the scene had resulted in something so much more than tragic.

Fixing his eyes on the raised coffin, he wondered if Molly Hooper had recovered from the effects of her mental break. There really hadn't been a need for a formal autopsy, but the people in charge had decided to take this particular case by the book.

He wondered if he himself had recovered.

As a doctor, he was fully aware of the effects of concussive detonation upon a human body, but as a soldier he was far more knowledgeable of the particulars. Thinking of the odds that precluded the possibility of a completely undamaged face, he wondered if it had been some higher power giving proof of it's existence, assuring that Sherlock Holmes would never be one of the unidentifyable victims who crossed mortuary slabs on a daily basis.

But who would have thought that something so insignificant as a cigarette would bring such a thing to pass? Recalling the look of horrified realization on the dead man's face, he shuddered.

Sherlock had known.

He had recognized the cloying smell of heavily concentrated gas in the very instant that the forensic photographer had struck his match, had known that the tighty-sealed basement would never have allowed for proper ventilation-

It would almost have been comical, the way he'd whirled about in blind panic, shoving his companion violently back through the open door...

The photographer had died in the explosion, along with two others, his mistake well paid for despite the immediacy of his death. John had escaped with only a mild flash burn to his face and arms, the heat searing off his eyebrows and lashes with the same ease that it had scorched the hair from his lightly covered forearms.

He still remembered the sharp cracking of bone against concrete, the deafening roar of consumed air and the brilliant flare of yellow-white that had left him temporarily blinded as he searched by touch for the detective's body. The sensation of blood and worse was ingrained into his skin, along with the moment that he'd known, really known that there was nothing anyone could do.

He raised his eyes to the cloth-draped bier that symbolized everything wrong and ridiculous and unfair in the world, wondering if people would think him mad for wishing that the casket were open.

Would any of these people unstand his need to see the figure within, to reaffirm the fact that there would be no more mad chases through dank alleys or half-mouldering cups of tea left untouched on the sideboard?

He doubted it.

Hearing the priest's call to rise for the final hymn, he snorted to himself.

The thought of Sherlock Holmes being sent to rest alongside the most common of funerary tunes was laughable, but there really weren't any songs that could have suited the deceased. He mouthed the words soundlessly, and in his mind he could almost hear the man's scathing commentary as to the skill of the ones who did sing.

He must have entranced himself with such thoughts, for when he took notice of himself again the room was nearing empty, the last of the bunch sending openly sympathetic glances his way as they returned to their mundane lives.

At last, he watched the door close with a hollow bang, turning to face the front as he gathered what determination he still retained after so many days of willpower-driven continuity. He approached the coffin without being fully aware of the steps it took to do so, but was grateful that his legs had moved at all. The lingering stiffness was just enough to make walking uncomfortable, but the bruises had started to fade within days of the accident, already turning the greenish color that spoke of proper healing.

The idea of recuperation made him laugh, and the sound was more like screams broken into short pieces than an expression of humor. He was suddenly enraged at the universe itself, and he slammed his hands viciously down atop the gleaming wood.

How dare that bastard bring him back into this life, and then abandon him in it?

He wanted to tear at the fast-wilting flowers that surrounded the alter, to shove the man's coffin as hard as the man had shoved him to safety alone.

Instead, he forced himself to breathe, exhaling roughly enough to cause pain along his still-tender throat.

There was no point to his rage, not when the words he wanted so badly to say would never be heard.

He wondered if he really was heading to madness with this final loss, but then he'd been mad all along, hadn't he? To have followed this person into so many dangerous places, with no more than a second's thought to what if, what if this time was different, what if this suspect had a gun, a knife-

Or a cigarette.

Gritting his teeth against the completely insane giggle that bubbled up, he stroked the shining lid that covered the source of his insanity. If the man thought that he had escaped his wrath...

Well, there was always the afterlife.


End file.
